


Unnéah

by ingridmatthews



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/pseuds/ingridmatthews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Challenge: Mid-range AU: Morgana/Arthur; Morgana's father lived, and the first time Morgana and Arthur met were as adults.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnéah

The winds whip over Cornwall's great cliffs filling the air with sea-salt and chill. Morgana raises her fur cloak a little higher around her neck, more from reflex than the cold. The area surrounding Tintagel is high and wild but she doesn't fear falling. Her entire childhood has been spent roaming this land, running over sheer rock walls so steep that angels might fear to tread.

_Like dancing on the clouds_ her father would say. He's never discouraged her adventures, treating her more like a hardy son than a fragile daughter. He's even taught her the use of a short sword and for her sixteenth birthday had a set of mail made just for her, light and delicate, true, but honest armor just the same.

She thought she would burst with pride and joy that day. It still makes her happy now.

She hears the news that they are to leave Tintagel to visit Camelot, by order of His Highness, Uther Pendragon. She knows little of the High King besides his hatred of all things magical and his unerring skill as a warrior. He has a son, a blond prat named Arthur or so said Sir Geraint, the last knight to visit her father's house a few months before.

She had covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter at his descriptions of Arthur, but Geraint shook his head. "Go right ahead and laugh, my lady, for never have I seen a king's son with lower manners. He's fortunate in that he can handle his weapons for I predict many a dishonorable fight in his future."

"Doesn't Uther mind?" she'd asked, delighted with the gossip.

Geraint shrugged. "As long as the boy can catch witches to burn, he cares for little else."

Witches to burn. Morgana shivers at the memory of those words. She knows of witches, as well as Uther's edict outlawing them from his realm but her Cornish blood is more than a little tinged with the magical ways of her ancestors. There is no child of the Old Ones who doesn't have a touch of sorcery about them and Morgana is no exception.

She has _dreams_ ...

"You're going to catch your death out here, child," a voice behind her chides. "It's too windy even for your hardy soul."

Morgana whirls around, her fears forgotten in the presence of her father, Golores, the strong and kind Duke of Cornwall. His hair, once dark like hers, has settled into a pleasant gray mane, sitting atop a weathered brow and twinkling eyes. "When did you become such a mother hen?" she teases, embracing him closely.

He chuckles against her hair. "Since I became both father and mother to you all those years ago. Don't think because I give you so much freedom that I don't worry about you."

She sighs and leans her head against his broad chest. "I don't want to leave here, Papa."

"It's not forever, dearest. A change of scenery will be a good thing for you. Can't keep you locked up in Tintagel always, as much as I'm tempted to. You'll like Camelot. It has fine markets and interesting people ..."

"And public executions."

"Morgana," her father warns lightly. "We have to watch our words, starting now. Uther is a good king and a gallant warrior but he has very little humor regarding the laws of his kingdom. He has his own reasons for what he does and we must respect them."

She wants to argue - _his own reasons_ \- but thinks better of it. "Yes, Father."

"That's my good girl. Have you begun your packing?"

Morgana bites her lip. "My sword and mail has been polished," she offers. Which is true, except that her sword and mail are always polished.

Golores laughs. "I'll tell Hannah to take care of your things as well. You won't need too many furs - Camelot is warmer than here."

Morgana frowns. She _likes_ the cold and thinks she hates Camelot already.

"Perhaps Prince Arthur will learn from your example if he's as irascible as Geraint claims. For that alone, the trip will be worth it," Golores muses.

_Maybe he'll get a taste of the flat of my sword_ Morgana thinks, but merely smiles as Golores kisses her fondly.

"My best girl. Now go home and help Hannah with her work."

Morgana pouts, but does as he asks, running over the great white stones that have stood guard along her home since the beginning of time, moving gracefully, as if she were dancing over the clouds.

xXx

 

The ride to Camelot is pleasant enough if longer than she might like.

Morgana is thankful Uther has the sense to invite them in summer, when the few main roads are dry. The great forests are heavy with bloom, shading their way from the bright sunlight. It is warmer here and Morgana can no longer smell the sea, which saddens her.

Her father worries aloud the entire trip. "I don't know why you insisted we leave Hannah at home. Who will help you when we reach Camelot?"

"Perhaps because Hannah's so old that a trip outside the castle walls nearly kills her," Morgana replies. "I'm sure Uther has a maid to spare."

"Hrmph." He continues to grumble about inconsequential problems to which Morgana only half-listens. She's far more interested in the towns they pass, the inhabitants who goggle at them from behind their rakes and plows. Little dirty-faced children run alongside them, daring each other to touch the hem of her riding dress until one of her father's knights shoos them off.

The sight of a Duke and his entourage are probably the most interesting thing these poor people will see in their short lives, Morgana realizes.

"Ah, here we are. The final road to Camelot," Golores crows. "We should reach the gates before sunset, daughter."

She forgoes the sarcastic cheer. Behind them, a bush rustles. Her father's knights chalk it up to a summer breeze but the hair on the back of Morgana's neck stands straight up. _There is danger here_, she knows it as easily as she knows what day it is. Morgana can _feel_ the threat and she reaches for her short sword, crying out. "Father!"

The Duke's reflexes are good but slowed by age. His knights, not having Morgana's prescience are little more than confused. It's up to her to dispatch the thieves who have set upon them at this, the crossroads that lead into Uther's kingdom.

She raises her sword and slashes, first to the right, than to the left, praying that at least a single stroke might strike true.

She's shocked to see two men fall to the ground, their throats slit open.

It's only a slight pause in the assault but it is long enough for the Duke to find his center, for the knights to pull their heads out of their chain mail and the rest of their attackers are either dispatched or running for their lives, not precisely in that order.

As quickly as it began, the battle is over.

"My angel," the Duke breathes, catching Morgana's hand in his. "How did you ..."

"I was afraid, that's all," Morgana quickly explains. She raises her hand to her throat for emphasis. "I believe I was lucky, nothing more."

If Golores is the slightest bit suspicious, he doesn't show it. He kisses her hand and turns to furiously berate his knights, using words Morgana isn't supposed to know about. "Let this be a heavy shame upon you, that a young lady was forced to save your sorry skins," he finishes in a huff.

Most of the knights hang their heads. Morgana tries to ignore the one or two who stare at her balefully, their eyes narrow with suspicion.

It's nothing that couldn't have been done by anyone, Morgana tries to convince herself.

Then she remembers the _sensation_ she experienced right before the attack and knows she is lying to herself.

xXx

To say Uther's Pendragon's palace is grand would be to damn it with faint praise.

There are turrets and balconies and _windows_ everywhere, those priceless, clear panes of glass that a lesser being might only dream of owning. Morgana tries not to gape like a foolish child -- it's only her father's dazzled expression that makes her feel not quite as silly.

The inhabitants of Camelot don't stare at them like the poor peasants of the outer realm did. Nothing is out of the ordinary to have a Duke and his daughter visit and Morgana can't remember a time when she's felt more provincial, a princess in name, but little else.

There are knights lined up to greet them, dressed in red and looking bored, especially the one standing in the very front. A smirking, tow-headed young man of Morgana's age and she knows immediately who is it.

Arthur. Crown Prince of Camelot.

Her father immediately dismounts and bows to the boy. "Sire. Thank you for welcoming us to your father's kingdom."

Arthur squints at him. "Right. And you're ... wait ... the Duke of Yorkshire."

Morgana's blood boils in her veins at the insult but Golores answers before she can embarrass them all. "You're very good, sire, but I am Golores, Duke of Cornwall. Your royal father is expecting us."

"Oh, yes. Sorry about that," Arthur replies in a tone that says he's anything but. "My father is in the throne room. I see you've brought half your castle and ... " He leers at Morgana, a half-smile curling over his handsome features. "Someone else." He saunters over, infuriating grin still in place. "May I ask who this lovely lady is?"

"This is my daughter, sire. The Lady Morgana of Cornwall."

Arthur's grin broadens. "I'm very glad to make _your_ acquaintance, my lady."

Morgana resists the urge to smack the smile off his face with her sword, still sticky from the blood of thieves. "You're shorter than I imagined, yet taller than people describe," she replies with an innocent smile. "Sire."

Arthur's interested leer melts away. Witty retorts are obviously not his strong suit, Morgana notes with an inner chuckle. "My father will greet you anon," he mutters, turning on his boot heel and stomping back into the castle, his dutiful knights in tow.

"Morgana," the Duke chides. "You must control that tongue. We are guests here."

Morgana widens her eyes and winsomely tilts her head at him. "I was only making an observation, dear father."

The Duke sighs and hands his horse to a groom before helping Morgana dismount. "Let us pray those observations don't get us a night in the stocks."

Her gleeful laughter echos through Uther's great courtyard. She might end up enjoying it here after all.

xXx

Uther's greeting is a cheerful one and how such a gut-and-bones warrior could have a greater handle on the common courtesies than his son is surely some sort of miracle.

He embraces Morgana's father joyously. "Golores, my dearest friend. What happiness to see you again and looking well too." He jovially taps his fist against the Duke's forearm. "Still in fighting shape, you old dog. We'll have to see if we can still meet swords on the tournament field as in the old days."

"You always beat me," the Duke replies, his smile as bright as Uther's.

"And plan on doing it again, good fortune willing," Uther laughs. "But you never know." He turns toward Morgana, his expression one of surprise. "Don't tell me this is the child. Tis impossible."

The Duke beams with pride as he motions his child forward. "Sire, my daughter. The Lady Morgana of Cornwall."

She curtsies as she's been taught, deeply because this is the King of All Realms. "Thank you for inviting us here, Your Majesty. We are greatly honored."

Uther extends his gloved hand to help Morgana to her feet. "I can't believe that the tiny little thing with scrapes on both her knees whom I met ten years ago is the beauty I see before me now. It's remarkable." He leans forward and lightly kisses her cheek, his breath smelling of wine even at this early hour. "You will be my beloved niece, as your father is already a brother to me."

Morgana flushes uncomfortably. "You are too kind, my liege."

"And Arthur will have a cousin," Uther booms, nodding toward his son who stands next to the throne, arms crossed over his chest, a supremely disinterested scowl covering his face. Uther waits a beat for a response, then repeats in an annoyed voice; "I said, you'll have a new cousin, isn't that right Arthur?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, but replies easily enough. "Sounds wonderful."

Uther's good humor dissipates, but he smiles grimly nonetheless. "Now that our guests are greeted, let's get them to their rooms. The celebration planned for tonight will be extraordinary as it's not every day our good brother and his loved ones come to stay at Camelot."

He claps his hands and an army of servants spring into action, practically carrying Morgana to her suite on the second floor of the castle. She peers around her room in shock. There are linens as fine as silk covering the bed, as well as flowers of every description decorating the tables. There are curtains and _a rug_ on the _floor_. An actual rug, and Morgana hurriedly kicks off her muddy shoes, horrified at the thought of ruining it.

"Your slippers, my lady," a voice behind her says, holding out a pair of the loveliest shoes Morgana has ever seen.

Morgana timidly takes them. The girl has a warm smile and curly hair and Morgana finds herself liking her immediately. "Thank you. I'm ... um ..."

The maid curtsies politely. "You are the Lady Morgana of Cornwall and we are so happy to have you here."

"Really?" Morgana asks, as she struggles to get the delicate little shoes on. "I'd think it would be a huge bother."

The girl helps her into a chair and effortlessly slides the slippers on Morgana's feet. "Not at all. It will be great fun to get you ready for all the feasts we'll no doubt be having. I can't wait to see your dresses," the girl confides with a sparkle in her eyes. "By the way, my name is Gwen. Not that it matters, but if you need me ..."

"Of course it matters," Morgana replies, admiring the silk-covered slippers, edged with tiny embroidered flowers. "I'm afraid my dresses are sure to disappoint. My father picks them out for me when he's away. He's, um, not exactly the best judge of fashion."

"Oh, I see," Gwen says sympathetically. "I'm handy with a needle. Maybe we can tailor them a little, you know, to tart them up a bit."

Morgana's giggles turn into a gale of laughter. "Tart them up? Heavens, if my father only heard _that_."

Gwen laughs with her. "You're going to have a wonderful time here in Camelot, my lady. I promise."

Morgana wriggles her toes a little, watching the sunlight glint off of her fancy new shoes. She suddenly feels like a little girl again, playing princess in a faraway castle and maybe Father is right.

It's good to get away once in a while.

There's a commotion outside in the courtyard, catching Morgana's attention. She's never heard such a clamor, miserable screams amid mocking laughter. She runs to the window, ignoring Gwen who tries to discourage her from opening it. "It's nothing you should be worried about," Gwen insists, but her face has turned a few shades paler. "Please, my lady ..."

Morgana shoos Gwen's hands away and peers outside. There is an execution about to happen and Morgana finds herself unable to turn away from the sight of a woman struggling in the arms of her guards, spitting and flailing, trying to call comfort to her baby who sits, unknowing, upon the hip of a much older woman who is weeping as if her heart would break.

The crowd crows and mocks her, laughing even when the babe lets out a cry for its doomed mother.

Morgana's heart is in her throat. She's never seen a public execution - her father the Duke doesn't believe in them - and she's horrified straight to her very soul. "What is her crime?" she whispers to Gwen, who stands next to her, hands fluttering nervously.

"Magic, my lady. She's a witch. It's said she sees things before they happen."

"How can they prove this?"

"She's predicted things, I suppose. I ... I don't know."

"Has she had a trial?" The drum starts beating and they force the woman to kneel before the axe man's block.

"Oh, yes. Uther usually gives them one. From the balcony."

Morgana can't tear her eyes away from the executioner's sword. It rises slowly before falling heavily and then there is nothing but rivers of blood and a twitching, flailing, headless body left in the dirt.

"The balcony," Morgana repeats weakly, stumbling away from the window. She sits heavily upon the bed, kicking off the gifted shoes as if they are on fire. _May the Great Mother preserve me from such evil_, she thinks.

"Are they no good, my lady?" Gwen asks nervously, stooping to pick the slippers up.

"They don't fit," Morgana replies in a daze. _He gives them a trial from the balcony? He merely announces their crimes and their death, that's all he does._ She can still hear the baby screaming in the distance and the sound makes her stomach churn. "I'm fine," she says shakily to a concerned Gwen. "Just a little tired from traveling. Perhaps a nap ..."

If the execution has bothered her maid at all, she doesn't show it. "That's a good idea, my lady." She tucks the comforter over Morgana's shivering form. "I'll come back later and we'll work on those dresses."

"Thank you," Morgana murmurs. She hears the door close and huddles further down beneath the blanket.

_It's said she sees things before they happen._

Morgana tries not to think about all that she's seen, so much of it that's come true.

_She's a witch. She's predicted things. Oh, yes, they get a trial._

A trial by sword, little more. In the back of her mind, Morgana still hears the sobbing child's cries and wishes her father were near. She wishes she were back in Cornwall standing on the cold limestone heights, the ocean climbing ever higher.

She would be safer there, upon the very edge of the cliffs, far above a raging sea than she is here.

xXx

Gwen is very good with a needle, true to her word. She easily takes one of Morgana's frumpy gowns and turns it into something else entirely with little more than a few gilded ribbons and well-sewn tucks.

Morgana stands before a polished brass mirror, hardly believing her eyes. "Are you sure the neckline should be so low?"

Gwen laughs, nearly swallowing the pin she holds between her teeth. "It's higher than most. I can sew some lace on if you are feeling particularly modest."

"No, it's fine," Morgana demurs. Together they work on her hair, piling it atop her head in artful waves, letting some fall down to frame her face.

Gwen offers Morgana cosmetics, rouge, powder and kohl, but Morgana only uses a touch of the rouge to bring some life into her winter-pale cheeks. "Is it too much?" she asks nervously. She's never worn make-up in her life; her ancient maid Hannah would have scrubbed her face clean with a rucksack if she'd tried that at home.

"You look amazing," Gwen says admiringly. "The knights will trip on their own boots when they see you."

Morgana blushes. She twines her arm with Gwen's and together they make their way to the Great Hall where Uther has ordered a feast to be held in her father's honor. She can smell the meat already, roasted venison and water fowl, dripping with juices and fat. Sweet scents fill the air as well, the rich smells of butter and sugar and no doubt there are pies galore.

Morgana bites her lip, regretting not having eaten. It would be untoward to stuff herself like a goose in the company of so many princes but maybe she can sneak a bite here and there when no one is looking. Or maybe she can just eat as she pleases - who cares what some pampered king's son thinks?

She couldn't care less what Arthur thinks of her.

Arthur. Why did that name come to mind? Morgana shakes her head before entering the hall. Now's not the time to be silly, she has to please her father. Being Golores' daughter, a Princess of Cornwall he can be proud of, is more important than the admiration of a dozen fine lords.

She takes a deep breath before presenting herself, a little disconcerted at the quiet hush that's enveloped the hall. Blindly, she curtsies before King Uther, desperately hoping to keep her balance and not tumble over like some dunce in front of the entire court. "My lord king, thank you for this feast."

A hand helps her to her feet, but it's not Uther's. "We should have a feast every day if we are treated to such handsome company as this."

Morgana looks up. It's Arthur who greets her so and she burns with annoyance. "I was speaking to my liege, Uther Pendragon," she says, plucking her hand away. She bows her toward the High King. "Thank you, sire."

Uther leans back against his throne, chuckling. "I can't say my son doesn't speak the truth. You are truly a sight to behold, my lady."

A glance at her father tells Morgana that he might not be as sanguine about her appearance as Uther and Arthur. "Did I buy you that dress, Morgana?" he asks once she takes her place at his side. "If so, I surely don't remember it being that ... revealing."

"It no longer fit very well, my father. It had to be altered slightly," she fibs.

"And what's that red powder on your cheeks?"

"Oh, look father. The steward has come with the wine," Morgana gulps hurriedly. "Allow me to fetch you some."

She slips away as quickly as courtesy allows, grabbing a cup of wine and keeping it for herself. Taking a quick gulp, she can feel the warmth fill her belly in place of the food that she should have eaten hours before. She's never been to a feast as grand - even her father's great Candlemas event is little more than a dinner with friends compared to this.

Luckily, Golores has become preoccupied with some of the older knights in another part of the hall, leaving her alone. Or somewhat alone, as Arthur is never far away, circling her as if she were a rabbit and he were on a summer's hunt. "So, _cousin_," he says finally, glancing at her over his cup. "Did you dress up for anyone in particular?"

She puts on her best bored expression. "Perhaps. Why do you ask?"

"Because if that's the case, I'm very flattered."

"Did I say it was you?"

"Who else could it be?"

Morgana shrugs. "My father. Your father. That old porter over there with the one eye. I'd say anyone but you." She pauses. "Sire."

"How polite you are, Lady Morgana," Arthur laughs lightly. "Always with the 'sire' and 'my lord' and 'my liege' no matter how sour the words that surround it."

"I've been taught my manners. Unlike certain others," Morgana replies, taking another gulp of wine. It's stronger than anything she's used to at home and goes straight to her head, making her cheeks flush.

Arthur calls over the porter and picks up two more chalices. Puts a fresh one in Morgana's hand and smiles at her over the rim of his cup. "They used to tell me that outland ladies weren't much to look at, but not only are you the exception to that rule, you're amusing to listen to as well."

The room tilts hazily but Morgana doesn't care. Laughter bubbles in her throat and Arthur suddenly appears rather dashing than otherwise. "I'm glad my utter disdain amuses you, sire."

"Oh, come now. Surely my admiration inspires something other than disdain, " he murmurs, taking a step closer. For a brief second they are nearly nose to nose and Morgana falters a little on her feet.

His eyes are very blue, she thinks. Like the great lake they'd passed by on the outskirts of Camelot, a mystical lake with fog and faeries and ...

She shakes her head. There's no such thing as faeries. As for Arthur's eyes they are very ordinary, incredibly so. In fact, she can examine them as closely as she likes and see nothing more than ...

_Morgana of Cornwall sees a woman dressed in red, her hair dark as a winter's night. A magical aura surrounds her and she laughs, holding a chalice in her hand. This is the chalice of life, upon the emptying of it, there is naught but death. _

Arthur does not yet wear the crown. The red woman claims that he shall not die by her hand but Morgana cannot be sure. Arthur takes the cup, raises it to his lips ...

Morgana lets out a little scream and slaps the wine cup from Arthur's hand.

The entire hall falls silent as the pewter clangs to the stone floor. Time stands still and Morgana's breath catches in her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

What can she say? That she saw things that might come to pass? That Arthur is in danger but she cannot say from who or what? What excuse might she give? That she has visions? Uther ... Uther will execute her. He will execute her father and ...

"How clumsy of me. One cup in and I'm already spilling things," Arthur proclaims loudly, motioning for another cup of wine. He nudges the fallen chalice aside with his boot and grins broadly at his father. "Can't take me anywhere. Sorry."

Uther sighs loudly. "Try to be more careful, Arthur. You startled the Lady Morgana."

And that is the end of it. The feast continues as if nothing untoward has happened. Morgana exhales shakily, suddenly weak in the knees. She lets Arthur take her elbow and guide her to a less crowded area. The air is cooler there and she gulps it down gratefully, leaning back against the cold stone.

"What was that all about?" Arthur asks. He seems more concerned than suspicious but that doesn't matter. He is, after all, Uther's main witch hunter. He cannot be trusted. "You seemed as if in a dream. Are you all right?"

"Too much wine and too little food, that's all. Forgive me," she stammers. Morgana bows her head. "I have been discourteous, my lord."

Arthur chuckles. "Most ladies would have slapped me by now. Although they usually aim for my face, not my drink."

She can't help but smile. "Everyone warned me what a prat you were, Arthur Pendragon, but I see they underestimated your good humor." Her smile fades a little. "It can't be easy for you here, can it?"

His joviality fades, his eyes hardening. He shrugs, trying to maintain a careless air, but he can't fool her. "I do well enough. My father is a hard man to please. He knows what lies ahead, I don't and that's the whole of it. As long as I keep sorcery at bay ..."

"Then half your work is done," Morgana finishes for him. "Is that what he tells you?" She stares closely at him. "Did he ever explain to you why the sorcery must be eliminated?"

Arthur's eyes narrow dangerously. "These are matters of state, my lady, not mine and forgive my bluntness, certainly not yours to question. What my royal father orders, I do. Mine is not to ask why, my lot is merely to obey."

There's an anger there, as if might have asked these questions himself and was denied. Or it might just be Morgana's fancy that he, the son of the king, can't fathom this deadly hatred of magic but she doesn't think so.

"You're very right," she says quickly, turning on her most charming smile, the one that's worked on her father all these years. "I ... I'm not used to such excitement, I'm afraid. I'm a poor country girl, nothing more. You do me too much honor, sire." Glancing away, she bites her lip coquettishly. "Such a busy place frightens me. I dare say I won't sleep a wink tonight."

His shoulders sag, his relief almost palpable. The pratish mask goes up again and he motions over his manservant, a thin fellow with dark hair and oddly mesmerizing eyes. "That I think we can fix for you. Merlin, I want you to introduce my Lady of Cornwall to Gauis. Tell him she'll be in need of a sleeping draught this evening." He slides her a sly look. "To calm her nerves."

Merlin looks confused, but bows to Morgana anyway. "At your pleasure, my lady."

Arthur claps him on the shoulder before leaving, bestowing one last lingering look upon Morgana as he goes. He disappears in the crowd, raising his wine on high as a greeting to his knights who are already deep into their cups. "So who is this Gaius?" she asks Merlin, staring after Arthur.

"The court physician, my lady."

Now he believes I need medicinal help, she thinks, chuckling inwardly. Wonderful. She takes Merlin's arm cheerfully. "Lead on then. I'm sure I'll present an interesting case."

Merlin smiles at her, but not with his eyes, which are the most interesting mix of colors. They remind her of the sky over Cornwall, which, to Morgana at least, always held a hint of magic.

His arm quivers a little beneath her touch. She can feel the unease caused by her presence just as she can sense a hint of something unnerving about him - something that feels like a kindred soul who just happened to chance into her orbit.

So strange that it's here at Uther's court, the place where magic is so forbidden, is where she feels its shining pull more strongly than she ever did anywhere else.

This irony is not lost on her.

xXx

The physician, Gaius, is a sweet older gentleman who seems very concerned about her nerves and lack of sleep. He asks her many questions, in such a kind voice, that Morgana almost breaks down and tells him the truth but her common sense triumphs at the last minute.

"I don't remember most of my dreams," she lies. "As frightening as they are, they simply fade upon waking." She's never had a nightmare she hasn't remembered in detail, but he has no need to know that. "I feel rather foolish, if the truth be told."

"Not at all, my lady. Our minds are strange place, full of hidden passages that only open when we let down our guard during sleep. Nightmares are the stuff of an active mind, if that's any consolation," Gaius says politely.

He gives her a vial filled to the brim with a flowery smelling medicine and tells her to drink it right before bedtime.

Merlin watches this exchange closely, his bright eyes narrow with concentration. He's Gauis' pupil, so she supposes he must watch to learn, but she can feel his attention trained more on her than the subject at hand.

"Thank you, sir," she says gaily. "My father will be eternally grateful if he no longer has to check up on me in the middle of night, at least while we are here."

Gaius pats her shoulder, as a grandfather might. "Trust me, he'll do that anyway, as a miser would worry over his greatest treasure."

"Shall I take you back to the feast, my lady?" Merlin asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, like a puppy. "Prince Arthur will probably be looking for you. I can ask Gwen to put the flask by your bedside."

"I'm sure Prince Arthur has better things to do. I've caused everyone here too much trouble for one day," Morgana insists, tucking the flask in the belt of her dress. She smiles winsomely at them. "By the way, I ... I saw a lady wearing a gorgeous red dress at the feast. She had black hair and the whitest skin. I would like to know who she is and ... " Morgana pauses, trying to appear as shallow as possible. "And where I might find her seamstress before I go. I would love to have a dress of such beauty."

Merlin and Gauis exchange a look, before, as if on cue, shrugging at her. "If there is such a lady, we have not seen her, at least never in this court," Gauis says firmly. "Perhaps you saw her in a dream?"

A cold chill slides down Morgana's back and she shakes her head. "No, it must have been at my father's house then. How silly I am."

She leaves with many smiles and curtsies, hurrying back to her room. Gwen is there waiting for her, cheerfully helping her with her evening toilet, telling her little gossips from the feast. She's hardly listening, still wondering about the woman in her vision. That dangerous woman and she can't stop thinking about Arthur drinking from that fatal cup.

It's nearly midnight when she bids Gwen goodnight. She sits on the edge of the bed as Gaius' draught trembles in her hand. She downs it with a gasp and a pleasant warmth fills her belly, then her limbs.

She falls into a heavy sleep but even the physician's draught isn't enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

_The woman in red is at the foot of Morgana's bed, smiling. " Sweoster," she whispers. "Cymst. Cymst sweoster. Cnósl, hie byrelaþ wæter wældreóre fág."_

Morgana wakes, her throat still working from a scream. She is not alone, her father is there beside her, holding her tightly, his hand held over her mouth. He's shaking, terrified and murmuring to her in a frantic voice, "Not here, child! Not here. We cannot let them know."

Morgana stares at him in shock. His hand lowers from her mouth and silently, she understands. He knows -- _her father knows_.

He's always known. And loves her none the less for it.

Weeping, she crumbles in his arms, sobbing as if she were a child.

xXx

The next few days pass quietly enough. When Arthur isn't hunting witches, he's hunting for food which the court devours at an astonishing rate. Morgana is shocked at the amount of waste rampant in Uther's castle - perfectly good organ meat thrown to the dogs, fruits and vegetables allowed to spoil or worse, permitted to be thrown at whichever unlucky soul is banished to the stocks for the day.

She says nothing. If and when the famine times come, Cornwall won't have the problems these poor folk will. Instead, Morgana explores Uther's library, filled to the ceiling with books on all subjects, many covered in jewels, a few of them so precious that a single one might buy the lands of a lesser king.

She feels shy, afraid to touch them but Geoffrey, Uther's librarian, is very courteous. He patiently retrieves anything that catches her eye, explaining the book's summary and history with only a glance at the title. "Have you read them all, my lord?" she asks.

Geoffrey chuckles. "Not quite. I'm getting there. Perhaps another eighty years or so." He sighs. "Now, my lady, it's back to my work. Feel free to read whatever you like and don't hesitate to ask for help."

She thanks him before settling down with her first pile, handpicked by Geoffrey himself. Unfortunately he's pulled out the stalest of courtly romances for her, as well some scrolls of drippy verse, more suitable for a younger - or at least less cynical - girl than she.

Sneaking away from the table, Morgana heads toward the histories. Great, fat volumes, well-used by the condition of their spines and she pulls out an interesting-looking one, if its red and black binding is anything to go by.

It's entitled "The Purge" and her attention is caught immediately. She opens it and scans a page, her heart careening toward her throat when she realizes what she's reading.

It's the list of witches and sorcerers killed by Uther after the outlawing of magic.

Endless ... endless ... there are thousands of names, some as old as ninety, some as young as six, noted alongside their crimes ranging from the making of love philtres to 'murder by sorcery." Her hands shake as she turns the pages, _seeing_ their faces, imagining their agony at the stake and the block.

She wants to run, to hide, but Morgana can't stop reading, her breath hitching violently in her chest. When she gets to a woman also named Morgana, not much older than she, burned for 'predictions of future events' she slams the book shut, startling Geoffrey, who looks up from his writing. "My dear?"

"I ... I just remembered, I have something I must do," she stammers, gathering her skirts and flying from the library.

Blindly, she runs down the stone halls, not caring where she is going, as long as it gets her _away_. She only stops when she runs headlong into another person and they both reel back from the impact. "Whoa!" Arthur cries, catching Morgana's shoulders and steadying her. "Is the castle on fire?" He smooths her hair away from her face. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," she replies breathlessly, the blood thudding through her throat. "I ... I ... " She laughs weakly. "I miss the outside air. I can't stand being in this castle any more. I just had to get outdoors before I lost my mind."

Their eyes meet for a moment and Morgana can clearly see that Arthur often feels the same way. "Outside, eh? I can arrange that," he says, taking her hand in his. "Let's go."

The touch of his hand calms her, she can't understand why. Quietly, Morgana follows him outdoors as he calls for horses, two palfreys, a black one for him a snow white one for her. Once mounted, his grin turns into a dare and they race down the winding path that leads away from the castle. She finds herself forgetting about the book and the names and the terrible dreams that haunt her.

Morgana follows him down well-worn paths until they reach a lake she remembers from her journey there. He helps her dismount and they find a soft patch of grass to sit, a few feet from the still waters. Arthur pops a blade of grass between his lips, chewing it contentedly, staring dreamily at the lake.

Morgana nudges him. "You look like a country boy."

"I think I may be one at heart," he replies. "A life of hunting, caring for the sheep, feeding the chickens ... sounds like heaven."

"Which proves you've never lived it," she laughs. Arthur grins back, a beautiful, sparkling smile and a connection is made between them. He is not part of Uther's wickedness - she can _feel_ this - he is only a child trying to please his father, to fit into a world not of his making, just like herself. In his own odd way, he might be as frightened as she is. Morgana senses a sudden bond that makes her heart thrum in her chest and she's forced to turn away before she does something foolish.

Not that it matters. Arthur tucks his finger beneath her chin, turning her toward him and when their lips meet, it feels right and just terrifying enough, like dancing on the cliffs of Cornwall, eyes closed.

He pulls away first, surprised and breathless. He ducks in for another kiss and this time it's messy and passionate, lasting much longer than might be considered appropriate and when they finally break apart, panting for air, Morgana finds herself covered in grass bits, her long hair falling everywhere, her dainty comb lost.

Arthur stares at her with huge eyes, his lips still wet and red. "We ... I ... we should ..."

"We should go back," she agrees. _Before we go further_, is the unspoken end of the sentence.

Both of them are unsteady as they stumble to their feet. The horses are a little ways away and Arthur holds her hand tightly as they walk. She can feel his fast pulse and wonders if he can feel hers.

All the fear has left her, replaced by a much warmer, if not exactly safer, emotion.

She swings easily into the saddle, still giddy. "Race you back," she teases, kicking her horse into a trot.

It's not level enough here to race, nor is the road wide enough but Arthur plays along. He suddenly looks like the lovely boy he is, his face open and happy. "As if I'd get anywhere quickly on this mangy horse."

"I think someone is making an excuse."

"I think someone is cheating. Hey ... wait!"

xXx

They part ways at the castle and Morgana walks the still hallways alone that evening, thinking of Arthur's kiss.

It's there that she passes by the evil woman of her dreams, dressed in maid's clothing, a blue turban wrapped around her head. She is truly there ... no longer a dream or illusion. She stands in front of Morgana blocking her way and holds out her hand, as if asking Morgana to take it.

Morgana's heart skips a beat and she shrinks back to escape the woman's touch.

The woman steps closer, her eyes shining with sinister glow. The air around her practically shivers with magic - a cold, dark magic from the beginning of time. "Come, sister," she sings. "Come. Together, my sister, we drink the blood of those we have slain. Those who would have us slain," the woman murmurs in the Old Language and this time ...

Morgana can understand every word. _Sister. My sister._

"We're going to kill him," the woman finishes. "You and I."

Terrified, Morgana runs away, the woman's mocking laughter echoing in Morgana's ears.

xXx

There is no hesitation about what she must do. She thinks she should warn her father at least, lest Uther deem him guilty by association but no, Uther loves him and would be more than willing to blame her alone.

She knocks on Arthur's door, grateful to find that's he's alone. "Morgana," he says brightly. "I wasn't expecting you." He reaches for her, to pull her into an embrace but she sidesteps him, her heart nearly failing her.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

He stares at her with a lover's concern. "What's wrong?"

The words come out like sharp stones, shattering the room. "There's a woman who's come to the castle to kill you. A sorceress, of dark hair, disguised as a maid in a blue turban. You need to either remove her or kill her, except that will be difficult as she's very powerful."

Arthur pales. "How do you know this?"

She looks him directly in the eye. "Because I can see the future. Because I am the same as she."

For a long moment, there is no movement, no sound. A white-cheeked Arthur sways a little on his feet and Morgana sees the hard mask slam down over his features. He's never looked more like Uther than at that moment and the sight breaks her heart. "You need to leave here," he says, his voice strangled. "You will leave this castle and not return."

"You must promise me ..."

"I make no promises to you!" he cries, his knuckles white around his sword.

"Promise me you will heed my warning," she interjects. "Or all this is for nothing."

"It's already nothing," he spits, but his hand moves away from his weapon. "Get out. Tell your father to take his horses and you and leave. You cannot stay under this roof a moment longer."

Morgana's entire body shakes, but she manages a curtsy. She leaves, wincing as he slams his door behind her. It's hard to navigate the halls while she weeps but she somehow makes it to her father's room and sinks into a chair by his bedside.

Golores stares at her. "Child ..."

"He knows," she chokes out. "I had to do it, Father. She was going to kill him. I couldn't let that happen. But ... he knows."

It's hard to face him, this man who has given her everything but in her father's eyes, she sees nothing but love. "Then, my dearest, we must leave this place. Get your cloak and meet me outside. There, there, little one." He helps her to her feet, embracing her. "Uther may be king of this land but I am your father and there is no power greater than that."

Shaking, she clings to him. "I'm so sorry, Papa."

"Never mind, just find your cloak and let us go. Quickly now ... there's my angel."

xXx

_And then she told the duke her father, and said, "I suppose we were sent for that I and my magic should be discovered, wherefore, Father I counsel you that we depart from hence suddenly, that we may ride all night unto our own castle." And in like wise she said so they departed, that neither the King nor none of his council were ware of their departing. _

As soon as King Uther knew of their departing so suddenly, he was wonderly wroth. Then he called to him his privy council and told them of the sudden departing of the duke and his daughter. Then they advised the King to send for the duke and his daughter by a great charge: 'And if he will not come at your summons, then may ye do your best; then have ye cause to make mighty war upon him.'




 

xXx

By the time Uther's forces arrive at Tintagel, Morgana is long gone. Her much older sister Morgause rides down one autumn eve and escorts her out under the cover of cold darkness, stealing her away to Lothian, where she and her husband King Lot live with their four sons.

Lot controls most of the North and Uther would be foolish to break apart the country for a single sorceress so as long as she stays there, she's safe enough.

Miserable, but safe.

"I don't know why you revealed yourself to that prat but I'm sure you had your reasons," Morgause mentions pointedly one evening. Her sister has some good qualities but tact isn't one of them.

Morgana stares into the fire, absently rocking her infant nephew Gareth. "It couldn't be helped."

Morgause's laughter is unseemly. "What nonsense. If anyone can help anything, it's our kind. Dear sister, you truly have no idea of the extent of your power, do you?"

Morgana watches the flames lick at the black wood. She thinks back to the lake and the prince she held in her arms, of Arthur's face, filled with hope and wonder, if only for a few moments. "I know my power," she replies and for the rest of evening ...

Morgana Le Fay speaks no more.

xXx

the end

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The italicized quote toward the end of from "Le Morte Darthur" by Malory, slightly altered to fit the story.
> 
> Thanks to Rap for giving this a read through. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. I hope you enjoyed reading. :D


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